


Endurance

by ShadowOfHapiness



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: (is this even a tag in this fandom?), (so are Abraham and Glenn because 7x01 never happened, Gen, Hershel is still alive in this because he was offed way to soon, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, No Plot/Plotless, Rick Whump, Whump Without Plot, hiding injuries isn't smart, okay?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowOfHapiness/pseuds/ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: Herhsel had told him not to join the scouting team, that it was stupid to go out and risk injuring himself again after last time's wound had barely closed over.Carl was going though, and Rick would be damned if he left his son go without him. Even if the scavenging ends up with him having an injured knee and opting not to tell Hershel about it. How bad can a little scratch get anyway?





	

All things considered, he wasn’t supposed to be here. What with a recently healed arm injury, Hershel had strongly advised against him accompanying the group, arguing that it would be likely only prolong the recovery of the gash on his shoulder –courtesy of his own carelessness- and would push back the healing process all together.

However, Carl was part of the group going along, and Rick was certainly not about to let his son go head first into danger without him having his back. As their leader, he probably should have stayed with Michonne, Glenn and Eugene, where he could at least make himself useful –namely, _not_ put himself at risk- but knowing that Carl would be out there, without him, it just didn’t sit well with him, and, politely turning down Herhsel’s advice, he had gone along with the group.

Had Carol and Daryl come back from their food scavenging mission –they made quite a team, and Rick was confident that they would bring them back something worthwhile. He dared to hope so, at least- the latter of the two would probably have tried to prevent him from leaving their camp in the first place. But Daryl wasn’t there and nobody had tried to stop him, and so Rick had gone along anyway, quite doubtful they’d be unfortunate enough to encounter a pack of walkers.

Regardless of is earlier presuppositions, encounter them they did, a sizable heard of about seven beasts –or maybe it was eight, he couldn’t really tell- right after Abraham diligently packed up a stray package of dried biscuits they’d been lucky enough to stumble upon, pushing the three of them –Abraham, Rosita, and himself- towards the nearest wall and leaving them little choice other than to fight for their lives.

Everything had been going as smoothly as one can expect when faced with a starving pack of monsters, until the past week’s lack of proper food and rest eventually caught up with Rick, and in a moment of involuntary negligence, he lost his balance and stumbled forward slightly. The downward swipe aimed towards his knee went unnoticed as he brought up one of his small pocket knives -which proved to be much more useful in close combat- to imbed it into the walker’s face.

Still high on adrenalin after the last creature had been dealt with, the fact that his knee had been nicked didn’t make it to the forefront of his mind. As it was, he could hardly feel the cut, and would rather avoid Hershel waste supplies on it when they could better used elsewhere anyway. He seemed to have escaped the others’ notice too- still recovering themselves, and with whatever dark colored hue his jeans qualified as, the wound looked to be nothing more than a mere scratch anyway.

* * *

Hershel’s disappointed expression is the first thing that he noticed when he and the group make it back to their current encampment, Rick’s choice of taking up the rear end to make sure no creature baring them any ill-will happened to be following them or simply to delay the inevitable confrontation with their medic’, he wasn’t too sure which. From where he is sitting next to what must be the makings of that evening’s fire, the older man is peering up at him from beneath his pair of thick silver eyebrows, and Rick suddenly feels to ashamed to dear go any nearer to him. It’s not an expression he’s had to deal with very much yet – Carl is the one to whom such feelings are often made known to, a silent plea for him to be a little more careful- and when Hershel’s bushy brow frowns even more when Abraham gives the group a quick retelling of what happened (he is sure that the old man is scrutinizing every inch of his persona right now, and he’s _not_ liking it one bit), Rick eventually turns away, going to settle himself down next to Carl, his young son looking rather amused at witnessing his father being chastised like a child, knowing all too well what the feeling is like after having found himself in a similar predicament many times already. Rick doesn’t notice Hershel getting up and coming their way until it’s too late, the old man standing in front of him, surprisingly tall from where he looks at him from his hunched over frame.

“I thought I told you not to go along with the scouting group, Rick?” His earlier expression is still unchanged, and his voice too sounds upset.

“Aye, you did.” Rick keeps his eyes trained on the little bits of gravel on the ground at his feet, voice surprisingly small and not quite feeling ready to meet the veterinarian in the eye yet.

“But you chose to do so regardless.” And he isn’t sure whether it’s exasperation or something slightly more understanding that he notices in his voice, regardless, he doesn’t want to know. And no, Rick doesn’t answer back.

“Anything I need to look at?” Hershel asks, voice sounding tired and head tilted to the side as if he is trying to read him.

Rick shakes his head and Hershel lets out what must be a satisfactory breath, nodding before moving back to the camp’s fire, adding a small dried branch or two to it to keep it going for another while.

It isn’t until hours later, once they’ve all had their fare share of the meager dinner and are all lying down next to the dying embers trying to catch whatever sleep they can, when whatever amount of adrenalin had kept him going throughout the day finally ebbs away that his knee begins to pound. He quickly glances towards Carl –his son is curled in on himself, sleeping soundly with his back to their common heat source, likely letting his body recuperate after fighting off the walkers they’d encountered earlier, and the rest of the group seems to be either dozing or talking in hushed tones, including Daryl and Michonne- and after quickly excusing himself under the pretense that he has to deal with _the call of nature_ , he stumbles away from the group towards the neighboring run down water tank they’d come across earlier.

He can’t see the wound through the dark material of his trousers, which leaves him with little other choice but to try and peel it up and away. It’s not pleasant, especially when a small part of it seems stuck to his skin and he has to all but tug it off with one swift pull as quietly as possible. With a sharp tug, Rick quickly separates the rolled up clothing from the wound beneath, almost wheezing instantly as sparks of pain travel up and down the length of his leg, from his knee down to his ankle. For a moment, a mix of black spots and stars cloud his vision over, his body in too much pain to do anything to fight the wave of nausea.

Pulling out the crinkled bottle of water Michonne had handed over to him earlier from the pocket of his jacket, Rick opens the cap with shaking fingers and gently pours a small amount of its content onto the wound in the hopes that it will helps the jeans to loosen up a little. Attempting to move his knee to get it into a slightly more accommodating position is painful, and by the time he’s finally managed to pull it back up towards his chest, he is honestly wondering how on earth Hershel hasn’t heard him yet. There are already goose bumps popping up the length of his bared skin –courtesy of the chilly night air- and his knee almost flinches against it of its own accord.

Almost. Rick is thankful it doesn’t, for he isn’t sure whether he’d be able to keep the pain in if it reared its ugly head so suddenly.

Taking another sharp breath, just to make sure he _is_ indeed in control, he peers around at the wound –and _crap,_ what he’d initially thought to be nothing more than a scratch obviously isn’t, this is much worse- it seems to stretch almost the full length from his knee down to his ankle. And of course, his fumbling has caused it to re-open.

_How the hell did it get like this?_

Rick barely recalls the cut from the walker, can’t even remember feeling it when it happened, and it clearly hadn’t caused him any pain back then. Now it is though. And on top of that, it’s very ugly-looking too. Quickly sparing a glance back towards the others, he is relieved when he can see their huddled silhouettes in the distance, no one seems to have realized that he’s been gone for a little while yet.

_Hershel can’t know. He’s already upset by earlier’s stupid stunt, no need to trouble him more. And his supplies are best used on the others anyway._

Quickly, fingers trembling, Rick uses what’s left in the bottle to clean the deep part of the cut in his knee as best he can, and the throbbing left in the wake of his ministrations almost have him lurching forward and throwing up the meager meal he’d allowed himself earlier. Eyes flickering down for a moment, he notes with dismay that he must have re-opened it somehow, a rivulet of blood dripping steadily towards his ankle and for a moment, Rick can’t think of anything else to do but look at it, completely at a loss as to how to go about dealing with the damn thing.

_Dammit Grimes, think of something._

He can’t go rummaging through the bags for something he might be able to use as a bandage, that would just set everybody off. If Hershel sees it, the old man will either get upset or use what precious little supplies they have on him, and the latter of those possibilities is definitely out of the question for Rick. He can feel he is getting desperate, what with his panicked breathing and the moisture gathering around his eyes ( _hell no, he is not going to cry,_ he thinks, frustratingly wiping his arm across his face) and with little other options, he tears a piece off the bottom of his shirt, wrapping it as carefully as he can around his knee and pulls it tightly before bringing the jean material down once again. He clenches the wound tightly with his fingers for a moment, desperately hoping for the added grip to make his leg go numb but he has no such luck, and rather quickly does Rick find himself biting his lip in an effort not to alert anybody –because _fuck_ does it hurt.

_Breathe, you idiot. You’re making this out to be way more than it actually is. Even Carl would do better than you._

After a moment or two where he is precariously close to losing his balance, the initial pain seems to slightly reduce, and once he doesn’t feel like he’s going to topple over as soon as he takes another step, Rick dares to stretch his leg out again, heart pounding in his throat in anticipation for another wave of pain. It’s still there when he unsteadily makes it up to his feet once more and several times does it threaten to send him to the ground again while he awkwardly hobbles back to their encampment but at long agonizing last, he makes it. Still in one piece.

Rick is glad to see that Carl is finally asleep (at least one of them will get something good out of the night) and if he glances quickly over his sons’ dozing frame, Michonne right behind him, also catching up on whatever sleep she can get –good. Bending over slightly, mindful to not flex his leg less he wants the sharp pain to return with a vengeance, he pulls the poor excuse of a blanket up around Carl’s shoulders and tucks it up beneath his son’s chin before laying down beside him on his right, carefully trying to avoid drawing Daryl’s attention to him –the archer seems to be the current member of their group set to keep watch and with his brilliant eyesight (Daryl wasn’t the group’s designated hunter for nothing after all), Rick has no doubts that one wrong move on his part will all it will take to sell him out, which he would rather avoid after managing to deal with the injury by himself up ‘til now. His leg still throbs constantly, but Rick shuts his eyes and grits his teeth and hopes that ignoring it for the night will make it better tomorrow.

_It’s nothing that won’t heal on its own. It’ll be fine in the morning and Herhsel and the others will never need to know. I’m more than able to deal with this by myself._

Unknowingly inching closer to Carl –his blanket s warm, _Carl_ is warm- Rick tugs his brown coat around himself a little tighter and tries to get as much sleep as he can.

* * *

When the sun peeks up the next morning, Rick feels every single one of his rigid bones and the remaining aches of last night’s awkward (and failed) attempts at sleeping. His world goes white when he –momentarily forgetting what had occurred yesterday- goes to bend his leg to push himself up. His knee feels as if it’s burning, a flame spreading like wildfire down the length of his leg, and sparing a quick glance downwards, he is relieved to see that Carl doesn’t seem to have woken up yet. At least he won’t have to witness his father breaking apart, with his breath catching in his throat each time he tries to breathe in and how his whole body shakes with tremors he can’t seem to stop.

Quickly coming up with some poor excuse about needing to relieve himself again or to make sure there aren’t any walkers roaming a little too close to their camp –he isn’t exactly sure what he comes up with, but the others seem to buy into it anyway, out of credibility on his part or sheer sympathy they might have for him because they already know what he’s keeping from them, he’ll probably never know- Rick makes it down to the disused water tank, leaning against it as he slides to the ground and pulls the leg of his jeans upwards, wincing as the material literally tears away from the skin it had been stuck to with dried blood, and the cold dusk air instantly prying upon it certainly isn’t helping matters. The blood is still there and because he can come up with nothing else to help the cut mend itself, Rick can only stare at his makeshift bandage weakly. Now being able to see it fully, with the purplish tint to the skin around the fabric , he has to admit that it looks much worse than it did yesterday. Not knowing what else to do, he uses his left hand to scoop up a little of the leaked puddle of tepid water left in the tank to his right, clenching his jaw against the pain as he twists back into place and discards the strip he’d used last night to bind his leg with his other hand. He rips another strip off the bottom of his –thankfully long, or maybe it was he who had simply shrunk in size, scavenging for food often does that to people- shirt. Rick hopes that this time the improvised dressing would do the trick.

At least it would, that is, if the damn cut would ever consider closing itself.

* * *

Still, ever since he’d awoken from his coma induced state, Rick had become a leader, and as such, he soon takes the head of the group and they once again find themselves on the road in search of more food, for they do not have nearly enough to share equally in the upcoming weeks. For a while, worrying about their next stop and how they might have a stroke of good luck and simply stumble upon something good to eat (it _had_ happened before, all to rarely, but Rick had learnt to be a little hopeful. At any rate, it couldn’t hurt), and all in all, it helps him take his mind off his knee. Until it doesn’t, when said joint requires his full attention again after threatening to send him toppling over several times, his quick reflexes his only saviours. Rick finds himself having to glance down worriedly more often than not, to make sure the blood hasn’t soaked through the leg of his jeans, or everybody would know, there would be no fooling them then. Carl _–bless Carl-_ doesn’t seem to notice his predicament form where he’s walking slightly ahead of Abraham. He does ask once, says he looks like he hasn’t slept much (but everyone is looking like hell right now, so Rick isn’t much different form them) and he is quick to deflect, ask him something like what he might be hoping to get his hands on the next time they’ll be lucky enough to raid a grocery store (funny that, how a lot of their conversations seem to revolve around food lately) and it seems to do the trick, Carl lamenting their loss of candy bars.

If he glanced to his left, he might have noticed Michonne’s wry smile aimed at the pair of them but Carl –and more importantly, a genuinely _happy_ Carl, for the moment- keeps his attention for the moment.

“Do you think we’re likely to find Camation bars? I think I could do with some of them, to be honest.” He smiles, and for a moment, Rick forgets about his knee because his son looks honestly happy to be talking about breakfast cereals with him, and that almost makes the whole situation a little better. “And if there’s only one, I _might_ even share it with you or Michonne.”

Rick hopes that the expression on his face is a smile, and not the grotesque grimace he is probably pulling off. But his knee is throbbing so heard he can feel his eyes begin to water again (and not due to a lack of sleep this time) and he prays to whatever power that might be above that if he breaks down, that it not be in front of his son.

* * *

When he eventually agrees with Daryl, that they ought to stop for a while, the only thing Rick really wants to do is to get away. Making sure that Carl is focused on helping Glenn and Sasha with whatever they were trying to come up with for dinner that evening, and offers to fetch more wood to keep the fire going through the night to break free from the suddenly suffocating group and make it to the tree line. Bending his leg down seems to be night unbearable this time around, and he can’t move his knee at all it’s so stiff and still hurting. His hand hovers over the material, and he isn’t even sure what the dampness around his eyes is ( _it’s not tears,_ he tells himself. _Rick Grimes doesn’t cry_ ) but something tells him that it has to do with the fact that he can’t even see for himself what state the injury underneath is in.

“Rick?”

Were he a small child, Rick probably would have jumped three feet into the air at being startled like that –he sighs in relief however when upon turning around- it’s only Maggie, one of her inquisitive eyebrows raised high up on her forehead. “You… You need a hand with something? Looks like you’re struggling there.”

“N-No.” _He did_ not _just stutter, no._ He swallows hard, wishes for her to leave him be just long enough for him to gather his wits and make it back to the camp as if nothing had happened. He wants to convince Maggie to go back too, he thinks on the one hand. On the other, he is just thanking his stars that the woman doesn’t seem to have caught him checking on his knee. “I just… I thought I’d gather whatever I could find to keep tonight’s fire going while I was still out here, need to be alone for a while anyway.”

“Didn’t you say you had to relieve yourself?” She cocks an eyebrow, and Rick can feel the ghost pistol he’s just used to shoot himself in the foot as she looks at him, slightly perplexed. “You’ve been gone for a while.” She adds, taking a step towards him.

“Ah, well thank you for the concern.” He tries to reassure her that he is completely fine, hopes the plastered smile on his face is convincing enough. _Please go back to the others, surely Glenn or Rosita or maybe even Abraham could do with a hand._ He gestures back to himself with exaggerated vigor, “But as you can see, I’m only gathering what we’ll need for the night, I only-“

“Yeah, need tie away from everyone, like you just said.” If anything, Maggie still doesn’t look like she believes him one hundred percent. “Since I’m out here too, I might as well give you a hand. It’ll get it over and done with faster.”

_Dammit, I can barely kneel as it is, how the hell am I going to be able to pick up anything with my knee?_

Crossing his fingers in the hopes that Maggie won’t follow him, Rick inches back into the woods, not too sure where exactly he’s headed, but as long as Maggie picks a different path from him, he’s all right with it. However, no sooner has he let out a deep shuddering breath as he leans against a tree for support that Glenn’s partner creeps up on him from his left.

“I found these just left of the clearing, think that’ll keep us going for the night?” She asks, after letting several rather thick looking logs of dried wood fall at his feet. She points to one of them, the biggest one of the lot, saying that maybe they ought to save it up just in case, that given their circumstances, it was a smarter move to have it if ever the need arose rather than use it tonight (Maggie has a sharp mind for those kind of things). He’s about to agree when he awkwardly bends down to retrieve it, still trying to avoid bending his left leg as much as he can.

“You sure you’re all right?” Maggie raises an eyebrow, index finger pointing towards his stretched out limb. “Your leg trying to catch whatever rest it can already?” She laughs lightly, and for a moment, he almost dares to hope that he’ll be able to brush off her concern just as easily.

But then Maggie reaches out, hand brushing Rick’s knee. Had she done so yesterday, he might have actually been okay, it might not have caused any harm, but right now, Maggie’s finger manages to land just where Rick thinks the worst of the wound hides beneath his pant leg, right at the top, on the side of his knee, and he flinches back immediately with a pained grunt, his hand coming to hover over the injury.

Maggie is probably apologizing over and over, but he doesn’t hear it in the moment it takes for the spike of pain to dull down, for his breathing to even out and for the momentarily black spots dancing before his eyes to fade away, and by the time he’s sure they’re all gone, he can feel his hands shaking as they grapple along his leg, not sure where their touch would cause as little harm as possible.

“Rick? Rick, what’s the matter?” It sounds as if Maggie is talking to him from somewhere far away, her voice a faint sound carried back to him somehow, yet even with the distance, Rick can pinpoint the vague traces of worry in her tone.

_Breathe, just breathe._

 “I-It’s alright, it’s nothing much.” He forces the lie through gritted teeth, hopes he sounds somewhat convincing and that his voice doesn’t shake as badly as he thinks it is. He is relieved when his eyes manage to focus once again, albeit agonizingly slowly in Rick’s mind, and Maggie is there, crouched down in front of him, surprisingly taller than him at the moment. Her brow is still creased with worry though, and her anguish does not seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. Rick feels blood pounding in his ears as the lie still hangs in the air between them.

He really hopes the moisture he can feel around his eyes is sweat and not something else, which would be far more embarrassing. _(Rick Grimes doesn’t cry, remember?)_

“You certainly don’t look like it’s nothing. What’s up with your leg? I barely touched it. Did Abraham punch you there or something?” Maggie has her hands on his shoulders, locking them in a firm grip so he can not turn away, and as he looks up at her to find the woman holding his gaze unflinchingly, he can’t help but feel small all of a sudden. Ashamed even. As if keeping this little nothing from her (ad from the others) now held a prized place among the most forgivable things he’s done. And Rick has done a lot of things he’d consider unforgivable in other circumstances since the world went to shit and he awoke alone in that abandoned hospital.

“I promise it’s nothing, really. Just-I simply nicked my leg on something yesterday during our supply scout, and it’s obviously a little swollen today. I swear it’s not worth the worry though.” He really is trying his best to sound convincing, but he might as well give up right now for he can’t even look Maggie in the eye as he says the words. _She’ll know if you do_ , he tells himself. And as if to prove a point (to her or himself he isn’t quite sure), he shakily gets back to his feet –or tries to at least, when his left leg wobbles for a moment, Maggie’s hands reach out to his shoulders, her tight grip probably what stops him from being sent toppling to the ground once again.

“Can I take a look?”

“I swear, it’s really not that bad.” Rick takes a tentative step back as he says so, glad to see that his voice has regained some firmness. Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure that the same doesn’t apply to his leg, his knee on fire again.

At his obvious difficulty to actually move, Maggie offers him an arm to lean on as she helps him to stand up properly, Rick mindful to keep as much weight as possible off his left leg –not that he is a particularly heavy man to begin with anyway- but he guesses that the less pressure he puts on the wound, the more likely it’ll be that he’ll be able to go on for longer. He’s aware that he’s still breathing heavily however, and Maggie’s attempt to play nice quickly comes to an end.

“Can I see it?” She asks again, formulates it as a question –probably because he’s still her leader and she still wants to give him the chance to be simply be honest with her and tell give her permission himself.

Rick doesn’t want to though, he knows what is bound to happen if he does.

“”Why? I promise it’s getting be-“ Of course, a sharp wave of pain suddenly has to erupt in his knee at that moment, while and Rick doesn’t want to admit it, he’s pretty aware of the fact that his body sways for an instant

In an instinctive response, his grip on Maggie’s arm tightens, his knuckles going white, and between two shuddering breaths, Rick really hopes he isn’t hurting her. Maggie doesn’t seem to notice his concern as she all but demands, “Let me take a look, I’m not letting you go back to the camp before I’ve seen it for myself.”

_Hershel and the others will know, she’ll tell them for sure. She’ll tell them._

“Maybe you should see to Abraham first, he had a nasty gash on his shoulder too when we came back. Probably best he get it seen to before heading out next time.” Pushing her away as lightly as he can, Rick hopes deflecting her previous concern and reminding her of their other injured companion back at the camp will be enough to take her attention off him. “As your leader, I’m telling you, _I’m okay_.”

Maggie doesn’t seem ready to buy it though, as she all but crosses her arms over her chest and raises an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t change anything. Show me.”

Rick’s shoulders sag as he heaves a defeated sigh, at any rate he knows he isn’t about to win this one. Besides, Maggie is aware that something’s up with him now, he might as well show her and ask her to keep it to herself rather than refusing and quite possibly ending up with her telling the others out of frustration.

“All right, you can take a look.”

With his quiet permission, Rick tries to roll up his pant leg, and it’s embarrassing how Maggie has to keep hold of his wrist to stop his hands form shaking once again. By the time the fabric is well pushed back and she’s had the opportunity to really take a look, Rick is biting his lip so hard he’s surprised it isn’t bleeding yet. Something must be well and truly wrong though, for Maggie to look like that, and Rick isn’t too sure whether he wants to venture down the road of knowing why or would rather remain blissfully ignorant.

“Yesterday, when we went scavenging for food with Abraham and Rosita.” He supplies quietly, supposes he might as well come clean in front of someone, and since Maggie’s here…

“Walker?” She asks, voice as steady as her fingers, which Rick flinches away from instinctively when he feels them getting a little too close to his knee for his liking.

“I’ve dealt with it, wrapped it up and cleaned the cut out.” Technically, Rick can honestly say that he _has_ indeed done just that (and damn was it painful too, he remembers sharply), and if it’s one step closer to brushing Maggie’s concern off, he finds he’s rather willing to take it, because if she sees the state of it now… _She’ll tell Hershel for sure._ “It’s a lot better than when it was wrapped it up last night, must be on the mend. I simply jostled it.” And at that, Rick isn’t sure whether she’d actually smiling or grimacing –maybe it’s a bit of both.

Though to his deception, Maggie’s expression goes skeptical once more, even though his explanation seems to have quelled her most pressing concern for the time being, and she raises an eyebrow once again. (Or maybe it’s because she’s Hershel’s daughter and she’s learnt to see through patients lying). “It’s not infected, is it? Should I let my father in on this, maybe he could…”

“Use what little supplies we have.” Rick cuts her off immediately, only slightly apologetic to stop her in her willingness to help because it means that he’s still going to save what they’ve got. “We don’t have much, and I can’t have Herhsel wasting it on little cuts like this. Besides, I upset him enough as it is by joining the group yesterday, I don’t want to be causing him any more worry when he probably has more than enough to shoulder. It’s just a scratch anyway, it’ll get better. Please don’t tell him about it? Or anyone for that matter?” Rick really isn’t good at begging, but he thinks that this time, he might just be able to stoop so low if it means that Hershel gets to have the necessary equipment in case anybody else gets hurt. “It really _is_ okay though.” He insists, knowing he would rather not cause a scene and attract unwanted attention. He needs Maggie to trust him, now. “Just please promise me you won’t say a word.”

Maggie sighs –whether in defeat or in frustration, he can’t really tell- but she seems to have come around to how he’s seeing this (namely that telling Herhsel will only result in upsetting him and have them use what little they have when they might need it in case an emergency ever arose). “All right, you win this one, I won’t say anything. But don’t be stupid, if this gets any worse –and I do stress the _any_ part- you come to me immediately, all right? I might be able to come up with something to wrap around it.”

“Thanks.” He manages to give Maggie what he thinks is a grateful smile, even laughs it off. “It really is okay though, so I might have to pass up on your offer.”

* * *

_Damn is it cold. His leg is a useless lump he’s now dragging around and with each step it gets heavier and heavier. He’s panting, gasping for breath, until what little he’s managing to take in isn’t enough anymore and he’s choking…_

_Fucking chocking._

_“Hey, wake up! Rick you need to wake up!”_

At Maggie’s urging whisper, Rick’s eyes snap open, and it’s literally the only part of his body that seems able to do anything right then. He’s shivering and feels more exhausted than ever –funny that, he can swear he’d turned in early last night to actually get as much sleep as he could, even had had to come up with a good excuse too when the others had started asking questions. _Well look how that turned out…-_  Maggie is still looking at him with the same concern she’d been throwing his way yesterday as she tells him almost reluctantly, “Daryl’s scouted ahead, suggests we get a head start as there seems to be a heard of walkers roaming around the area. Says it’s better off that we leave now.” She’s about to get back up, hands on her knees and already pushing, when she spares him a glance again and stops. “Need a hand to get to your feet? You don’t look as if the night’s done you any favors.”

“You could say that.” He has absolutely no idea what the wound looks like today, but Rick gathers it’s far from anything along the lines of doing better. Neither is he for that matter, pretty sure he’s experiencing the true meaning of _feeling like shit_ firsthand. The extra sleep he’s managed to have is obviously not doing much for him either, _damn it._

“How’s the knee?” Maggie deadpans, but Rick brushes her concern aside and carefully gets back on his feet, making sure the injured appendage in question is actually supporting him and that he isn’t about to need her arm as soon as he takes a step forward. If he can get too his feet without too much trouble, he gathers he can probably walk too –even if his leg feel heavy and from the knee down is constantly throbbing, it’s simply something he knows he just has to make do with for the day. It definitely is when he notices everyone looking at him expectantly, and their eyes burning giant holes right through him have Rick suddenly feeling like actually making it through the day is now ten times more impossible than merely standing is.

_This is so fucking embarrassing._

He really does try to ignore it though as he lets Daryl take the lead (claims the hunter is the most suited among them to find and follow any trail they’ll be lucky enough to find and him taking the rear end is simply to make sure no walker is about to take them by surprise, that his job is to protect them –oh Rick knows it’s a pretty lame excuse, but to his luck the others seem to buy it, and he isn’t about to prolong the issue). Herhsel looks back to him several times after they set out as he hobbles along –actually ahead of him- and Rick hopes that the sweat he can feel trickling down his back and the dam hair plastered to his forehead isn’t something he’s the only one to deal with. He blinks harshly several times when the blasted black spots pop up in the corner of his vision, arguing that it’s just because he hasn’t eaten or slept much lately and it’s coming back to bite him in the arse.

Some time later, Daryl suggests they halt when the hunter points to Eugene literally slumping over and Rosita’s whole frame beginning to crumble beneath the weight of her pack, says he’ll go and catch them something good for dinner while they get a chance to rest up a little and Rick barely keeps himself from collapsing on the spot at that point. “Need to –Be back in a flash.” He isn’t sure whether they buy the excuse but as he takes a step back and Daryl doesn’t seem to follow him, he hobbles away, retreats to the other side of the plateau they’ve stopped on, far enough away for them to no longer see him. Rick doesn’t think he’s made it very far though, can’t have with his knee on fire, but as soon as the group is out of sight he collapses, hands going to his jeans and carefully pulling the fabric upwards, leaving a trail of burning fire along his skin in its wake.

His leg feels unresponsive, and wanting to quell the bubble of absolute panic he can feel expanding in his chest, Rick brings a shaking hand to the skin, bending over slightly in the hopes of getting a slightly better look. The wound is far past the state of mere ugliness, with crusted and fresh blood blending together, trickling down his leg in an ugly brownish rivulet –probably due to him over-exerting himself, not exactly a smart move on his part- and he doesn’t even want to begin to try and figure out what the shade of ochre actually is. He’s pretty sure that had he eaten anything substantial earlier that morning, he’d probably have thrown it back up right about now.

_Of course it’s gotten worse, it’s bloody well infected and you’re not about to help it get any better all by your lonesome. You should have gone to Hershel while you still had the chance, now you’re done for! Bloody brilliant Rick!_

Rick doesn’t even bother to pull the jeans leg back down, figures it’ll just make his leg more painful than it already is and he’s just _so tired of the whole damn thing_ at this point that he can’t bring himself to really care anyway.

He probably should have, he thinks, when he sees he’s somehow wandered back to the group, and Carl is looking at him like he’s just gotten his arm bitten off by a walker or something just as pleasant –and as his eyes roam around the encampment for a moment, he realizes that just about everybody is looking at him exactly the same way. Michonne’s whole body has stiffened (always subtle in showing she actually does care but never able to make the trait completely disappear –and Rick knows there’s something between them, something unique and special, he just wishes he doesn’t have to realize it under such circumstances).

“I told Hershel, Rick.” Maggie says quietly, voice tight and shoulders hunched over slightly as she steps out from behind Abraham, as if trying to apologize. “I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.” _Fair enough, putting it that way, well she does have a point._ It’s not as if Rick can muster up enough strength to be upset with her anyway.

Next to Herhsel, Daryl stands tall, frowning and looking rather vexed, though a word has yet to make it past his lips. Their older companion steps forward, and Rick envies the way the old man’s bones still hold him up straight (or at least, are doing a far better job at it than his own at the moment). “Let me take a look. Is it serious?” He asks, hand already inching for the bottom of his jeans.

“It’s not good.” Is all Rick manages to muster up before his knee gives out, and he’s out of it before he’s even sprawled out at their feet.

* * *

_His leg is burning, searing pain continuously traveling up and down, fire licking his skin and leaving angry red markings in their wake. His whole body is pounding now and he can feel himself wavering on the edge of blissful unconsciousness, wants to let it take him so very badly if it means he’s offered a chance to escape the aching. The much needed reprieve never come, however._

Rick blinks, an impossibly vast expanse of blue sky spread out high above him –it looks clear, the same color spread over a long stretch, and it’s so much more colorful than the monochrome blackness he can feel creeping up on at the edge of his vision. It’s actually so much better that he momentarily forgets about his leg (or maybe he actually knows that he’s trying to forget but doesn’t manage, the pain overriding everything else). He can’t move, his body feels stiff and it’s as he tries to unsuccessfully move that Rick realizes that he’s on his back –craning his neck to the right, he thinks he can see Daryl bending over his leg. That’s when Rick registers the pressure, and that the hunter is actually is actually putting his weight on is injured appendage.

“You finally come around Rick?” Herhsel’s voice sounds from his left, where he too is kneeling over him –Daryl still firmly holding him down so as to make sure that he isn’t about to budge an inch. When Rick finally manages to look up at him, Herhsel’s expression can almost be describes as sympathetic (what with the attempted smile and drawn eyebrows and all that) and he takes a deep breath before looking him in the eye:

“Rick, I’m going to have to clean this out before putting anything on it I’m afraid, it really is pretty ugly looking.”

_Damn it, he hasn’t even begun touching it and it’s already that sore?_

It’s embarrassing, how he can feel something wet sliding down the side of his face and probably leaving a very visible mark in the grime and dust on his cheek (and if this wasn’t so serious, Daryl would probably be making fun of him, telling him that he ought to just laugh it off, that they’d all been through worse and that he was being a bloody wuss about it. And, most importantly, that he’d never let him live it down).

“Dad.” It’s Carl’s voice 9at least, Rick is pretty sure it’s Carl), coming from somewhere to his left. “It’s okay Dad.”

Craning his neck around awkwardly, he seeks out his son, Carl almost immediately coming to kneel down beside him, and he thinks he can see Glenn hovering somewhere in the background with baby Judith in his arms (at least she’s safe).

Carl’s hand inches towards his and Rick blindly reaches for it, drawing a little comfort from the touch. It’s something familiar, something he can hang on to and something he knows won’t be pulled away from him. He feels a hand on his hair –warm, almost soothing, and he didn’t really know he needed it until now, but is grateful for it none the less.

“Carl.” His voice sounds hoarse, and he grasps his son’s hand a little tighter.

“Dad.” And there’s a slight tremor in Carl’s voice, it’s unmistakable and it makes guilt twist in his stomach at the thought of the needless distress he’s obviously causing his boy. Carl is a kid fending for himself daily in an apocalyptic world overrun by walkers, he’s got more than enough to worry about, and this is simply piling unnecessary unease on his already burdened shoulders. It’s probably anguish Carl wouldn’t even have to go through had Rick been smart and just went to Hershel in the first place.

 “Sorry Carl, seems like you’re the one on babysitting duty for the next while.”

It’s a half-arsed attempt at making light of the situation and he knows it. Carl does too, but he still huffs out something Rick takes as a laugh, probably opting to go along with it to momentarily escape the worry gnawing at his guts.

“I think I’ll manage.” He spares a glance towards Shane’s daughter (because no matter how much it might still pain him, Rick knows Judith isn’t his), still safe in Michonne’s arms, before turning back to him, hand squeezing his just a little tighter at what _managing_ to look after Judith actually entails.

Rick knows he needn’t worry further for her, Judith is in good hands with Carl. At least she’ll be all right, thing he sure as hell isn’t at the moment, especially when another burning wave spreads down from his knee.

“Not going to lie, this is going to hurt.”Herhsel says as he finishes rolling up his pant leg, hand now hovering over the ugly-looking injury.

Rick knows he shouldn’t fear it (hell, as an active officer he’s had his fair share of hospital stays before the outbreak) but his heart is still pounding in anticipation as the old vet wipes down his hands, the waiting making him feel almost as queasy (if not more so) as earlier, when he’d stupidly tried to pass off everything as merely _fine_. He knows this is definitely going to be quite unpleasant, and he’s not looking forward to having someone poking at his knee while having to keep still. However, all things considered, he now has little other choice.

At Carl calling his name again, his hand clenches around his a little tighter, the silent support most welcomed when he knows he’s certainly going to need it. Not so long ago, Rick can say he probably would have brushed his concern off, tell him that he would be all right, but now, sore and beyond exhausted, Rick is too tired to even feel ashamed at the fact that his son had quite literally watched him break down.

“I’ll be okay. Hershel is going to patch me up and after that, everything will be back to normal.”

“Carl, I’m going to need you to hold him down while I take a look.” Herhsel is actually quite possibly the only one keeping a cool head right now –probably used to it, given his career prior to the world going to hell.

His cool-headedness unfortunately doesn’t seem to extend to Carl however, his son taking quite a literal step backwards as he fully realizes what is expected of him. Rick shifts into a slightly more comfortable position before reaching out for him again, knowing that while no child Carl’s age should ever be expected to do something like this, well, a zombie apocalypse wasn’t exactly a normal situation, and the sooner they got this over with, the better it would be for the lot of them.

“Hey.” Surprisingly, his voice comes out much steadier than the quivering mumbling he’d initially expected it to be, and almost immediately, his son turns back towards shim, shaking head paused for a moment. “Hey, it’s okay Carl.”

Except that it’s not really okay, because no sooner has he said the words that Hershel, taking advantage of the momentary distraction, gets down to work, _and damn does it hurt like hell._ Through it all, Rick spares a thought for Carl’s hand, hopes he isn’t breaking anything as his son stays there, not pulling away.

* * *

He obviously passes out as one point –Rick isn’t too sure when exactly- but it’s when he wakes up to a pleasant warmth (not the horrible soreness he’s been carrying around with him for the past few days) and that he looks up to find that Carl is still there, hand gently over his own, that he understands that he hasn’t been left alone while out cold. As his senses slowly come back, he still feels a dull ache around his knee, but nothing near as bad as what Rick remembers it to have been the last time he was awake. He doesn’t particularly want to leave Carl, but his son is asleep –figures he probably needs it after everything- and Rick is rather loathe to wake him. Instead he sits back up slowly, only to find Herhsel looking at him steadily from across their campfire where he is keeping watch.

“There’s someone I’m relieved to see come around. How’s the knee?”

Rick doesn’t answer immediately –whether it’s because he doesn’t quite know what he should say or because his throat feels dry, he can’t decide-, he runs a shaking hand through his unkempt hair instead, bringing it back down almost as quickly when he feels the rest of his body tip to the side slightly (damn, when has he become so weak?). A hand comes to his shoulder, strong and steady, and slowly, Hershel helps him sit back up.

“I’d say probably a little better than last time we talked.” The words are sluggish, he finds it difficult to get them past his throat _(why the hell if it so dry?)_ , and even to Rick’s mind his voice sounds much more like a weak croaking sound that what it normally is. Than what he knows it _should_ sound like. “I’m not as warm… Or tired for that matter.”

“Good. The last three days seem to have been beneficial after all then.” Herhsel huffs out contentedly as he leans back.

 _“Three?”_ The notion of how long exactly he’s been out for quickly erases any sense of peace Rick might have awoken to. Three days was fucking huge –hell! In three days the rest of the group could have- “Carl?” It’s his first priority. His son has undoubtedly pushed himself too far in that short space of time, why else would he not have immediately responded when he’d first awoken?

“Carl is fine, Michonne and I have seen to that.” Hershel says in the most placating way he can _–no point in sending the other man into hysterics after he’s been out for the past few days-_ knowing it should be enough for a reasonable person like Rick. “Your little stunt actually enabled all of us to take a little time to recuperate. Maybe I should thank you on behalf of the group for that.”

There is a flash of something else in Herhsel’s eyes, and just like that, the false levity surrounding their discussion all but evaporates into thin air in the space of an instant.

“There _is_ something I would like to know though.”

There’s the other shoe dropping, and Rick feels an awful weight just waiting for its cue to fall. He’s stalling while he can, tells himself that there are a thousand things Hershel would probably like to know (so would he, for that matter) and that here are probably a number of things the old man would like to know about _him_. However, the more unlikely scenarios he plays in his mind, the worse he feels –no, he is not about to admit that his knuckles have gone white with worry once again, even if Hershel can probably see them perfectly fine from where he is if he simply looks down- and that his breath is caught in his throat as he waits for the inevitable.

But that’s exactly what he is doing, and Rick tries to bottle up as much as he can as the inevitable question comes out.

“Why did you think it was a good idea to hide all this form me in the first place?”

Although Rick knows he’s rehearsed an answer for this particular question several times in his head over the past few days just in case the need for it arose, now that he actually _has_ to answer, he just can’t meet Herhsel in the eye with the prepared excuse, and so instead of disappointing the veterinarian even further, he merely looks down.

“I didn’t want to waste what little supplies we have.” He starts off, but his voice quickly falters because Rick knows he still is only giving him a half-truth. Frustrated with himself, and knowing there is little point to him keeping his excuse form Herhsel now, he finds himself sighing and giving in.” I thought you’d be upset because of me not listening.”

Rick anticipates the answer, fully aware that Herhsel shaking his head in disappointment (or even anger, if it comes to that) is exactly what he ought to expect, but when a heavy but gently hand settles on his shoulder and his face snaps up, the expression painted across the elder’s features is, surprisingly, nothing close to fitting the definition of irritation.

“Not necessarily. Upset, now _that’s_ more probable, I did strongly advise you not to go out there after all. But I would rather have been upset with you and finding out there than have you decide to keep it to yourself and finding out like this –exhausted and almost drained. Don’t you think it would have been slightly more preferable?”

Looking at it that way, Rick does have to agree, and he nods quietly, still reluctant to meet Hershel in the eye. So much for this whole ‘keeping it to himself’ business being an attempt to make things easier for everyone, seems like he’s screwed up royally. “I guess I ought to apologize then, I _will_ say something next time.” Might as well let Hershel know he understands and that a lesson has indeed been learnt.

“Maybe we should just try and avoid a ‘next time’.” Hershel comments, attempting to lighten things up slightly (nobody is in critical danger or facing death head on, so loosening up a little doesn’t seem to harmful a route to take). Besides, the mild anger he’d had initially has long since dulled down, knowing that he’s done what he can and that Rick seems to –hopefully, and if not, he’ll see to it himself if he has to- taken on board his comments about letting the damn wound heal- understand that he’s not about to be running about quite yet. “If you give it a little time, it should recuperate mostly by itself at this point, and I hope you’re not about to pull off another stunt like this should it ever happen again?”

“No.” His chest feels a little lighter now that the unpleasantness is behind them –and looking back on it, Rick does have to admit that it was a pretty dumb move on his part to not get the cut seen to immediately-and the lingering touch of Hershel’s friendly pat on his shoulder before heading back to the others if both a source of relief and comfort –seems like they’re back on good terms.

And when the last embers of that evening’s fire eventually die out, Rick finally gets his first full night of peaceful sleep, something he hasn’t felt like he’s had in forever. And _damn_ does he appreciate it.

* * *

His knee is slightly better the next day (at least, Rick is relieved when he doesn’t feel any of the nauseating dizziness he’s been overly familiar with over the past few days). Carl still expresses a slight skepticism towards him insisting they move out that morning but once Hershel gives him his own approval, his son eventually relents (still argues that he’ll keep an eye out should anything go wrong, and Rick concedes that he can’t exactly be opposed to that) and to appease him slightly, Rick actually lets him take the lead once again flanked by Michonne and Glenn (because he guesses that someone who has _not_ spent the past few days close to collapsing is better suited to be upfront, for which he unfortunately does not qualify at the very moment.) Besides, it gives him an opportunity to actually heed to Hershel’s instructions, namely take things slowly and actually let himself get better.

He finds himself falling into step with Maggie, and for a while, neither really says anything, the unsaid lingering between them until the vet’s daughter eventually gives him a sideway glance, traces of guilt still evident in her features.

“You alright?” He guesses he might as well repay her for her concern in equal measure, Maggie has, after all, probably spared him a great deal of unwanted complications by actually spilling the beans to her father. And if that excuse doesn’t work, well Rick supposes he’s still the group’s de-facto leader (even if today, he’s taking a back seat), and it’s his responsibility to be aware of everyone is faring (which also includes himself, as he has learnt). And Maggie is the one to have saved him from his own stupidness after all, he _does_ owe her in some way.

“I never really apologized for going to my father behind your back, did I-“

“Hey, it’s _okay_.” Rick waves a dismissive hand, cutting her guilt-filled tirade short. “Really. I ought to be thanking you, you probably ended up saving my stupid arse by doing that actually.”

They laugh at that, and noticing that her features lighten up a little, the misplaced culpability now replaced with something Rick thinks everyone could actually do with more often –namely, light-heartedness and a genuine smile. It’s an unspoken truce, of sorts.

“You know, your royal stupid arse has a nice ring to it, I might actually share that with the others tonight.” Maggie says after a while, the whole thing said with an air of innocence but Rick would be blind if he failed to see that smug little grin. _Bloody hell…_

“You wouldn’t dare.” He challenges.

“Just watch me.”

Well, needless to say that next dinner is certainly _not_ something Rick is particularly looking forward to endure.


End file.
